


The Desperate Soldier (Or Dr Watson attends a house party)

by trashcanjan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Bottom John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, References to John/Sholto, References to Sheriarty, Regency fuck, Rimming, Sherlock Talks Dirty, Spit As Lube, Top Sherlock, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcanjan/pseuds/trashcanjan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John Watson attends a house party at the Holmes' estate. Sherlock buggers him in the stables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desperate Soldier (Or Dr Watson attends a house party)

**Author's Note:**

> What it says on the tin. Includes: seduction, arguing, Sherlock topping, and sex between consenting adults. Let me know if I've missed any essential tags :)

“Do you ride, Dr Watson?”

John looks up. His host, the younger Holmes brother, stands by his chair, regarding him with a cold blue gaze. John considers his answer. Stamford is engaged with the clergyman, Anderson, this morning, and Holmes the elder is, as usual, in silent repose in the library. John’s options for company include Mrs Hudson and Miss Hooper, both of whom are amiable ladies, but several days into his stay and the fertile ground of conversation has grown fallow. John has found himself lacking the patience for engaging in further idle pleasantries. Yet, he doesn’t ride much, not since the wound.

There’s an air of danger about Holmes the younger. Something in his gaze makes a shiver run down John’s spine.

“Yes,” he says.

 

Holmes moves with elegance in the saddle and he pushes his mount, pushes John. By the time they thunder back towards the stable yard, John is panting and laughing. They dismount and Holmes waves the stable hand away.

“We’ll see to them,” he says and the lad doesn’t need to be told twice.

They rub their mounts down and John cannot help but watch Holmes at work here too, coat discarded, his muscles flexing under his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. He watches for too long and Holmes catches him at it, and the look he gives John is far too knowing. He hurries to finish, to escape from the closed quarters of the stables and return to the bounds of propriety. Before he can do so however, Holmes comes to stand behind him.

“Oh Dr Watson, it has been some time, hasn’t it?” Holmes’ deep voice is a low rumble that starts behind John’s ear and rolls down to his shoulder blades then straight to his prick, god damn the man. “It was a superior officer, wasn’t it? Your last _lover._ ”

John turns, avoiding Holmes’ gaze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says stiffly. Isn’t it enough that the man has clearly seen his proclivities? Must he make John confess them?

Holmes is far too close, John can see his waistcoat, covered now in the fine hair of his horse, his shirt sleeves crushed. Holmes has always been impeccably dressed, now he looks rumpled. John exhales.

“John,” Holmes murmurs with a hint of reproof, and the impertinence of the familiarity sends a frisson through John. He feels hot. Does the man have to stand so damnably close? He turns his face away, away from crumpled white linen and fine silk waistcoats.

John’s throat is tight and he knows he’s flushing. “What do you want from me, Holmes? Blackmail is it? Money? Don’t you have enough?”

Holmes’ hand clamps like a vice on John’s bicep and he looks up at the man with a start. Holmes’ gaze burns into him. “No, not blackmail,” he almost snarls. He releases John and draws himself up to his full height, and the fire in his gaze is banked as a coolness settles over his features. “What I want, John," he says lightly, all gentle manners. "Is to unfasten your breeches and bend you over that saddle rack and fuck you until you beg.”

John’s breath stops. He clenches and unclenches his hands. There’s anger there, but, God, shame too, because he’s hard, devil take him, hard at the very thought. Holmes holds his gaze, a supercilious smirk quirking one corner of his wanton lips.

“Or, you leave now, return to the house and take _tea_ with Miss Hooper and Mrs Hudson and I will bid you good day and never speak of your _tastes_ again.”

John swallows.

“What will it be, John? Hurry now, I’m feeling quite invigorated after the ride, and if you won’t oblige, I shall find someone who will. Jim’s always up for a good rogering.”

The stab of jealousy surprises John. He lifts his chin, mustering his dignity. “Then why ask me? If you’ve got a ready fuck waiting for you?”

Holmes seems to find this amusing and tilts his head to consider John. “Because you’ve forgotten your limp,” he says simply, popping the last ‘p’.

John stares at him as he realises it’s true, he hasn’t felt a twinge since he mounted his horse two hours earlier. But what that has to do with being buggered by Holmes, defies explanation. Of all the rude— He’s angry now, furious in fact, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to punch Holmes or push him to his cream coloured knees. He steps away, unbuttoning his waistcoat with jerky movements.

“Yes then, damn you. Make it good. The last man who had me was a Major in His Majesty’s army, let’s see what a soft-bellied dandy can do, Holmes, you impertinent _fop._ ” He flings his waistcoat over his jacket and stands, fists clenches, glaring at Holmes.

The man returns his gaze and does not seem intimidated at all, instead rather intrigued and another shiver runs through John as he steps closer.

“Trousers now. Down to your knees, then bend over that saddle rack.”

John exhales through his nose, but complies ( _not obeys)_ with the instructions, unfastening his breeches and pushing them down his thighs. His prick springs free, thick and hard. He knows he’s well-endowed and raises a cocky eyebrow as the insufferable Holmes’ eyes widen perceptibly. Then without preamble he turns and leans over the bow of the saddle mounted on the rack, bare arse in the air.

Holmes steps up behind him and he tenses, waiting for the press of a thick cock head between his buttocks. Holmes cups his arse in his two large hands and parts his buttocks. John swallows in anticipation. But then Holmes suddenly shifts and John bites back a yelp of surprise as the filthy bastard _licks._ John grips the saddle tightly, struggling not to writhe and whimper as Holmes’ probes between his cheeks, working into his hole with his wet, mobile tongue. It is all John can do not to thrust back on the wicked intrusion, wanting more of the teasing sensation that lights every nerve. Finally Holmes sits back and then just as John relaxes and sucks in a breath, Holmes thrusts not one, but _two_ fingers home. The air escapes John’s lungs with a sharp grunt and Holmes chuckles and wiggles his fingers, teasing another gasp from John.

“So eager,” Holmes gloats. “Oh John, you’re so very tight. What will you feel like, stretched around my cock?”

John grits his teeth and thrusts back onto Holmes’ fingers and feels the pleasure of it radiate down to his thighs. “Shut up and show me,” he hisses, rocking lightly, relishing the stretch and burn.

Holmes begins to thrust his fingers, quirking them and scissoring them and John parts his thighs wider and pushes up into the intrusion. He’s lost control of his breathing and clings to the saddle.

“That’s it, that’s my good soldier. So hungry for more, aren’t you? My, how long has it been since someone fucked you thoroughly. It must be nearly eight month past since you’ve been properly ploughed.”

John’s breath catches because it’s true, it’s been eight months since his last tryst with James. He’s not going to tell Holmes that though.

“I’m right,” Holmes says smugly, all the same. “Did you try to do it yourself? Shaking and shuddering in your room, all alone, did you stick your fingers inside yourself and wish it was someone’s prick?”

John’s face cannot flame any more than it already has, but he feels the mortification nonetheless because, God, it’s true, it’s true. “Quiet,” he spits. “Damn you.”

Holmes gives a sharp thrust with his fingers. “Manners, John, or you won’t get what you want, what you _need._ ” His fingers quirk just so, and John cries out as a sharp spark of pleasure radiates through him. Then his fingers are gone and John is left bereft, exposed, open, empty and needing. “You need this, John, you’re so hungry for cock, I’ll have you asking me so sweetly to despoil your tight eager little hole.”

John’s own prick twitches and he resists the urge to rut against the saddle, knowing it will be over too soon if he does. He wants to spill with a hard cock deep inside him. He hears Holmes stand behind him, hears the rustle of fabric and nearly whimpers in anticipation. The thick head of Holmes’ prick smears precome against his cheek and then nudges temptingly against his entrance. He’s about to push back, to impale himself when Holmes hand grips punishingly tight on his hip, holding him.

“No, John, not until you beg.”

“Damn you.”

Holmes pulls back completely and John curses again.

“Beg me, John, I want to hear you plead.”

“Fuck me.”

Holmes’ prick teases at his entrance again. “Confess, John, tell me what a filthy, greedy wanton you are, aching for cock.”

“I want it. I want your cock,” John struggles against Holmes’ brutal hold.

“Tell me,” he growls and his fingers bite into John’s hip. “Beg John.”

“Please!” John growls. “Please take me, fuck me, use me. Please Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” Holmes growls as he pushes forward with aching restraint. “Call me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, please, oh God, please.”

Holmes eases into John’s arse with a painful slowness that leaves him shaking and biting back whimpers. Holmes isn’t huge but he’s big enough, big enough to enjoy, big enough for John to feel it good and proper. Everything narrows to that inexorable intrusion and finally Holmes is sheathed to the hilt, balls and wiry pubic hair flush against John’s perineum.

“John,” Holmes breathes and John’s gratified to hear the tremor in that superior voice.

“Move, damn you.”

His fingers dig into John’s hips cruelly.

“ _Please,”_ John spits out. “Please, Holm- Sherlock. Please, fuck me, I beg you.”

Holmes begins to move, thrusting with long, punishing strokes, never quite fast enough, never quite hard enough and John is helpless, pinned on the saddle, weak under the onslaught of sensation, needing it so much, needing more.

“Faster, harder, please, please, please,” he begs and Holmes picks up the pace, driving into John so fast that the saddle rack begins to rock, the thud, thud, accompanying the slap, slap of Holmes’ pelvis on John’s bare arse. He’s going to climax just like this, pinned and splayed on Holmes’ cock. His cries escape around his teeth.

“Yes, John, my wanton soldier, so greedy, so needy, I want to hear you—“

Then Holmes’ hand closes over John’s aching prick and John cries out properly, and comes his orgasm shattering through him in a terrible, aching wave as he clenches around Holmes’ prick, still thrusting into him unforgivingly.

And then Holmes is coming as well, jerking against him with sharp gasps and vicious thrusts, before he reaches his completion with a deep groan, sagging over John’s spent body. They stay there for a long moment, and then Holmes withdraws and John feels his seed trickle down his thigh. He rights himself sluggishly and tears off his cravat to wipe at the spill, both on his thighs and his stomach, before fumbling with numb fingers to put his clothes to rights.

Holmes, of course, looks almost impeccable once he’s pulled his jacket back on and smoothed his mop of curls. There is however a tell-tale flush on those high cheekbones and a particular cast to those sharp eyes.

“Well?” he asks, when John has finished fastening his own coat.

John looks up at him. “Hm?”

“How did this 'fop' measure up against a major in His Majesty’s army?”

John gives a startled laugh. “Moderately well,” he says lightly. “I expect with practice you will eventually prove his equal.”

The look of stunned hauteur on Holmes’ face soothes away any lingering embarrassment on John’s part. He smirks and then takes pity. “Thank you, Holmes, that was most satisfying.”

Holmes looks at him, something unreadable in his expression. “Sherlock,” he says softly. “Please, John.”

John clears his throat. “Sherlock,” he says, unaccountably touched by this new sincerity.

Sherlock nods his head once and then indicates the stable door with his hand. “Come, I believe it is time to change for luncheon.”

John looks at him and shakes his head in bemusement, before following the man from the stables. 

He is here for four more weeks.


End file.
